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“No one will bother you here. Do you need anything?” She placed the diaper bag on the long table that dominated the space.
Julia quickly sat down and began rummaging in the bag. She removed a large bottle of sparkling water.
“If you have a glass, that would be great. I try to drink a lot of water while I’m breastfeeding.” She removed her iPhone from her purse, placing it on the table in front of her. “If I need anything else, I’ll just call Gabriel.”
Raven retrieved a water glass from one of the cabinets on the far wall and handed it to Julia. She looked at the child, who had large blue eyes like her father and an abundance of fine, dark hair.
“How old is Clare?”
“She was born last September. She’s almost nine months.”
“She’s beautiful.” Raven touched the child’s head gently.
“Thank you. I think she looks like her daddy. But everyone says she has my mouth. Do you have children?”
“No.” Raven stiffened, looking from the child to her mother. “If you need anything, I’ll be in Dottor Vitali’s office.”
Julia poured water into a glass. “We’ll be fine.”
“I hope they find the illustrations.” Raven’s voice was quiet.
Julia looked up at her.
“I hope so, too. Losing them is much more than losing art.” Julia looked down at her daughter. “It’s like losing family.”
Raven nodded and exited the conference room, shutting the door firmly behind her.
Mrs. Emerson was not what she had expected. She was younger and much nicer than many of the important patrons and donors who visited the gallery on occasion.
Raven felt sorry for her, recalling the expression of sadness she’d worn when talking about the loss of the artwork. It sounded as if the Emersons truly loved those objects. Now they’d lost them.
As Raven approached Dottor Vitali’s office, she noticed that the door was open.
Professor Emerson was speaking loudly in Italian, his voice trailing down the corridor.
“So the Carabinieri have interviewed all the local patrons and they’ve made attempts to speak to everyone who attended the gala when the exhibit opened. What did they think of William York?”
“Who?” Dottor Vitali sounded confused.
“The young man who accosted me at the exhibit opening. I pointed him out to you and you said he was a local recluse who’d given a substantial donation to the gallery in order to be invited.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Raven approached the doorway, taking care to remain out of sight.
“Massimo, you recognized the man and had your assistant look up his name. Remember? He’s shorter than me; about five foot eleven, with blond hair. He’s English, from Oxford, I think. You said something about his patronage of the restoration of the Palazzo Medici Riccardi.”
“Gabriel, my friend, I don’t know anyone called William York.”
Raven heard the sound of papers shuffling.
“Here is the guest list for the gala. His name isn’t on the list. Certainly I know of no connection between an Englishman and the Medici palaces. Palazzo Riccardi is owned by the province. They financed the restoration, along with a select group of Italian patrons.”
Professor Emerson swore in frustration and Raven heard the sound of a chair toppling over.
Without reflecting on her actions, she moved to stand in the doorway. “Dottor Vitali?”
She looked in anxiety from the administrator of the gallery to the professor, who was standing over the fallen chair with clenched fists.
“Signorina.” Vitali gestured to her to enter before turning his attention to the professor. “My friend, please remain calm. Join your wife and your child and let me worry about this.”
“I’m worrying about this, Massimo, because someone has stolen what is precious to me.” The professor spoke between clenched teeth. “I will make it my life’s mission to see that those illustrations are returned.
“I swear I met William York. He behaved very strangely at the exhibit, and you and I spoke about him afterward. He seemed resentful about the illustrations and, although he’s young, he’s a man with deep pockets. Someone needs to go through the donor records and find his donation. You told me he gave several thousand euros to the gallery.”
Professor Emerson placed his fists on the top of Vitali’s desk, leaning toward him.
“And if you or the Carabinieri won’t see to this, I will personally hire agents who will complete this investigation.”
A long look passed between the two friends.
Raven shifted uncomfortably, glancing back at the open door. She wished she could disappear.
“Va bene,” said Vitali at last, waving at his friend. “Speak to Ispettor Batelli. He’s in charge.”
“Thank you.” Professor Emerson straightened and, without another word, walked out.
Raven waited, watching as Dottor Vitali closed his eyes and bent forward, almost as if he were praying.
At last he opened his eyes and gestured to a chair. “Signorina Wood. Explain your sudden change in appearance. And tell me where you were last week.”
Raven sat down, took a deep breath, and began her story.
On leaving Vitali’s office, Raven walked, deep in thought, down the corridor.
He hadn’t suspended her. He’d asked pointed questions about her appearance, her absence, and her interview with the police. His cool demeanor seemed to warm with her answers. By the time their conversation concluded, Raven believed she’d convinced him she had nothing to do with the robbery.
He’d sent her back to her job, informing her that the weeklong absence would be deducted from her vacation days. She was relieved she hadn’t been suspended or fired.
She walked down the hall, reflecting on Botticelli’s original illustrations of The Divine Comedy. They’d been prepared for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, who also owned Primavera.
She wondered if the thieves knew that. She wondered if the thieves were particularly devoted to Botticelli or simply opportunist.
She imagined a group of hardened criminals, dumping the priceless illustrations into plastic bags and shoving them into backpacks. They wouldn’t treat the artwork properly. They wouldn’t protect it.
They’ve probably spread them on a kitchen table somewhere and are eating breakfast on top of them right now.
She shuddered, imagining drops of milk or coffee marring the beautiful ink and the rare, brilliant colors. She imagined the thieves smoking, perhaps flicking pieces of ash over the faces of Dante and Beatrice.
Assholes.
If the thieves were devotees of Botticelli, small wonder they stole the illustrations. The size and weight of Primavera was so great, the painting couldn’t have been removed from the Uffizi without a team of men and the use of heavy equipment.
The thieves were probably unaware that the Birth of Venus was housed in the restoration lab on the lower floor. The lab was secure, but its security was not as elaborate or sophisticated as that of the exhibition halls. However, like Primavera, the painting was large and heavy and would require several people to carry it. It wasn’t exactly a piece someone could pass through a window.
With such thoughts in mind, Raven found herself entering the Botticelli room. Immediately, she walked over to stand in front of Primavera.
The room felt off center. The large and imposing painting was usually balanced by the Birth of Venus, but it had been taken down almost a year before. It would be a few more months before it could be returned to its rightful place.
Raven stepped close to Primavera, her eyes alighting on the lone male figure on the left. She was drawn to his hands, the muscles and shape of his arms, and his perfect skin. She admired his chest and neck and, finally, his face. He possessed pale eyes and a straight nose, his lips full, his hair long.
Something about his hair displeased her, as if it were incongruo
us with the rest of him. But his face . . .
She heard a voice whispering in her ear, but she couldn’t quite make out the words.
She whirled around. There was no one behind her.
She took a moment to close her eyes and focus on her breathing, trying with all her might to stave off the anxiety that plagued her.
With one last glance at the painted figure of Mercury, she walked to the door, bracing herself for her meeting with Professor Urbano.
Chapter Seven
After nightfall, Aoibhe sat in Teatro drinking from a glass specially designed to keep its contents warm and liquid.
Teatro was a secret club, located in the city center. It had been founded by the Prince in the seventeenth century as a kind of salon or meeting place. Over time, it had evolved into something far less intellectual. Now it was owned by the Consilium of Florence, although it hid its ownership behind the name of a Swiss corporation.
Florence and the other secret principalities in Europe predated the Romans. Shadow rulers and their advisers controlled the supernatural population within specific boundaries, usually cities. In the Middle Ages¸ the principalities in Italy had been organized under the ultimate rule of the King, in Rome.
Within the borders of Florence, the Prince had absolute power. In his wisdom, he’d put in place a Consilium, or ruling council, of which he was an honorary member. The Consilium functioned like a court and would punish or banish lawbreakers. It also oversaw the organization of the underworld society and its protection, particularly against incursions from other cities or territories.
When the Prince tired of dealing with Teatro, the Consilium took control, using it as a means of entertainment and nourishment.
The club contained a large central space with a dance floor and a bar; two sides of the area were dotted with tables and low couches. The walls and ceiling were painted a purplish black, the lighting was sensual and sparse, and the furniture was upholstered in velvet—black or red.
